


The Lion and the Hound

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Gen, basically the only relationship in this fic is between bash and stirling, stirling the dog who existed in the reign universe for about two minutes?, that stirling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the dog hadn't run off, things would be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion and the Hound

**Author's Note:**

> So after re-watching the pilot, I realized that Bash was gone a long-ass time searching for Stirling. And then I realized that the reason Bash first talked to Mary—thus igniting the flame that some call Mash—was Stirling. Without Stirling, Bash probably would’ve avoided Mary as long as possible. Bash’s exchange with Mary over Stirling and the fact that he found and brought him back for her was the start of their bond. So I decided to write a fic about Bash’s time spent with Stirling. It’s a bit inspired by Robin Hobb’s Fitz and Nighteyes. There will always be a special place in my heart for bastards and their hounds because of the Fitz and his wolf.
> 
> (Fic originally titled "The Bastard and the Hound," but I figured maybe I shouldn't put a potentially offensive word in the title.)

"Stirling! Stirling! Where are you? Stirling!”

Bash’s calls echoed through the forest, making birds scatter from their perches on branches, ringing through the boughs of the trees. Reminding him how utterly alone he was, how utterly empty. 

“Stirling!” He was getting frustrated now. “Goddamn it, hound.”

He sat down hard on a rotting log, folding his hands together. He’d never find the dog. The Blood Wood was enormous. Not to mention dangerous. The quicker he could get out of the forest, the better. But not without the dog. He’d promised. Promised Mary, beautiful, pale Mary with barely perceptible freckles, with wild, wild, dark hair. He’d promised.

Sighing, Bash rose from his seat on the log, groaning and brushing bits of moldy wood from his trousers. He took up his calling of Mary’s dog, wincing at how loud he was. Any moment more, and he was sure a group of Pagans would trickle out of their hiding places and cut his throat. He tried to be quieter.

As he ventured through the wood, trying his best to stay on the more trodden areas, he murmured, “Stirling. Stirling! Come here, boy. Come here.”

Nothing.

“Stirling. Come here, boy. Come here, rascal. Stirling!”

Quiet.

Bash sighed. _Think_. Where would a dog go? Why would he be interested in a dark, imposing forest? Squirrels? There weren’t many in the wood; the Pagans had probably finished them off long ago. Not water, certainly. The dog had had access to open water by the lake. Then why?

_No_.

Bash refused to let himself think of it, refused to see a dog sniffing at the upside-down, swinging body of some poor bloke. But he saw it anyway, even when he screwed up his eyes, forced an image of anything else—anything else, even Mary. This was an exception. He was allowed to think of her, just this once—into his head. But even Mary’s honey-brown doe eyes were replaced with the dead eyes of a dead face. _Not that. Anything but that._ He was convinced it was the blood that drew the hound. He knew where to look.

“ _Stirling_.” Whispered now, and with caution, but forceful and pleading. “ _Stirling_.”

He was rewarded with a friendly panting noise and the scuffs of a large hound’s paws against the carpet of leaves. Bash reached a hand out, shutting his eyes in preparation of the body.

Stirling came to him, wet nose pushing its way into Bash’s palm. “There you are, Stirling. Good fellow. Come along, then, back home,” he murmured, turning.

A whine. _Good fellow, yourself. So here you are finally, tall man. Took you long enough,_ thought the hound, bristling at the soft, cooing tone of the tall man’s words.

Bash blinked one eye open. And then immediately wished he hadn’t. A pale corpse was hung by his ankles, his face completely, solidly, disgustingly stained deepest crimson. Flies buzzed in thick swathes, crowding around his neck. And worse—if possible—was the smell. “ _Oh_ ,” Bash said as it hit him. Rotting flesh and metallic blood. Mixed in with the sickly pleasant, fresh smell of the forest; the fragrance of the leaves, the sun-warmed wood, the pungent, sticky smell of pine sap. “Oh.”

_You get used to it,_ the hound promised. Stirling paced around Bash, grinning wolfishly, his pink tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. His front paws were speckled with dark red. Probably from walking over the drying pools of blood, Bash assumed. Bash hoped. But if he looked closely, he could see that Stirling’s muzzle was dappled with rust, see that his teeth took on a faintly pink sheen. Bash refused to believe that Stirling had… _done_ anything to the corpse. Perhaps he’d licked the man’s cheek, checking for a sign of life. Yes. Bash could believe that.

_Bad blood_ , the dog warned. He growled softly when he realized the tall man wasn’t paying him any attention. _Tainted. Not good for eating. Besides, I wouldn’t eat a man. Too fatty._

Bash grabbed Stirling’s leather collar before the devil could run off again. But the hound wasn’t going anywhere; he’d already had his fill of—excitement? Or… _Don’t think about it_.

Bash should cut down the body. He knew he should. But he didn’t want to touch it. It was cold and limp and caked with blood. He didn’t want to hear the dull thump as the body crashed to the ground, didn’t want to see the neck loll as he dragged the corpse through the woods, didn’t want to feel how different and frozen the skin was. He didn’t want to think of the family this man had once had, his life, a cottage in the village, perhaps, a cottage bustling with a horde of youngsters and a harried, loving wife. _Don’t think about it._ Bash didn’t want to take the body down as much as he couldn’t bear to leave it. He should do this, this one thing. This man, whoever he was, deserved something— _anything_ —better than this. If not a proper burial, then a half-way decent one.

But what did Bash deserve? Certainly not a messy death by a handful of bloodthirsty Pagans. If he did this, this Right Thing, he could find himself swinging by the ankles, blood pouring from his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the corpse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Stirling whined and pressed his weight against Bash’s leg. He thumped the dog’s side comfortingly, wrinkling his nose when his hand came back sticky, faint blotches of orange-rust coloring his palm. “A bath. That’s what you need, eh, boy?”

Stirling cocked his head, perhaps trying to convey to Bash that he didn’t need a bath; his mistress had had him bathed before they’d left on the boat. But man has never been particularly gifted in understanding those they consider lesser than them, and Bash was no exception. _They never understand,_ the hound thought mournfully.

Either way, Stirling was getting a bath.

 

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she? Your mistress.” Bash sat on a warm rock, raking his hands through his wet hair. The creek they’d bathed in was pleasant; crisp and cool and refreshing in the sun.

Stirling dragged himself out of the stream. He sat in front of the tall man and panted, his gray fur dark with water. _She_ is _pretty. Not that it ever mattered to me._

“Do you think you could put in a good word for me?”

Questioning whine.

“You know, tell her about my bravery and strength. Kindness to animals. All that.”

_Kindness to animals, my tail_. Stirling shook out his coat, throwing droplets of water everywhere.

Bash wasn’t spared. “All right. I get it.” He shook out his shirt, frowning at the wrinkles it had obtained from its stay on the rock. “She really is something. But you already know that, don’t you?”

_Pointless question, dark one. Why say anything when you know the answer?_ The dog put his wet muzzle on Bash’s knee, staring at him with deep brown eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

A huff of released breath, almost like an exasperated sigh.

“I know. It’s not my fault. It’s yours. I never would’ve spoken to her if you hadn’t run off.”

Was it Bash, or had Stirling just rolled his eyes? Could hounds even do that?

“I’m telling the truth! I hadn’t even said anything to her before you disappeared into the woods. I wouldn’t have met her. And you shouldn’t go into this forest. It’s dangerous. You gave your mistress a scare, running off like that.”

A whine. Typical human, blaming everything on the hound. _I would’ve come back, dark one. I would never leave my mistress. You didn’t have to come thumping through the woods, scaring away everything within screeching distance._

“It _is_ your fault! Don’t give me those puppy eyes; you know it’s true. And I’ve wasted my whole day chasing after your scrawny hide.”

_Scrawny! Stupid man. I could outfight_ and _outrun you. If you want scrawny, look at yourself. Legs the size of birch branches, arms just as thin. A gentle breeze could knock you over. Scrawny._

“All right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that I don’t like you. It wasn’t a _waste_ , exactly. It was just…I didn’t expect to spend the entire day searching for you. I didn’t mean to call you scrawny. _Lean_ , all right? You’re _lean_. Stirling. Stirling, come back. Don’t run off. If I have to chase you again…”

_Fine. But I doubt you could catch me._ The dog trotted back to Bash, snuffling at his boots. Bash put an absentminded hand to Stirling’s head, scratching an ear.

“We’re friends, now, aren’t we, Stirling?”

Bash was rewarded with a relatively dubious look. _Friends. If that’s what you want. I’ve certainly seen enough of your privates._ Stirling’s tongue lolled out of his maw.

“Thanks,” Bash told him dryly.

Stirling shook out his coat again and put his nose in Bash’s hand.

“You will tell Mary about how good I was to you, though. Won’t you?”

The look the hound gave him was so plain even Bash couldn’t ignore it. _If you stop asking_ , it said.

Bash grinned. “Right. I think it’s time we headed back to the castle.”

Stirling had had this exact thought hours ago, but he, being the gracious animal he was, chose not to alert Bash to this.

“Stick close to me,” Bash told him sternly. “Don’t stray off. If you get lost, I won’t take time to find you again.”

_As if I’d get lost_ , the dog scoffed with his eyes.

Bash shook his head fondly. “I suppose you’ll be by your mistress’s side from now on, then. That’s a rough bit of luck. You would do well in a hunt. I think you could take rabbits easily. Deer, even, with a bit of training. Maybe I’ll take you out once or twice.”

_Only if I let you_. The hound cocked his head, his long, whip-tail wagging slightly.

As the two took to the path out of the wood, Bash spoke to Stirling about Mary, casting looks down to the hound trotting companionably by his side. “She seems very intelligent.”

_Of course she is. I wouldn’t have it any other way._

“She seems rather perfect in most senses.”

_You haven’t seen her in the mornings_. A devilish grin that Bash somehow missed.

“Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I sort of wish she wasn’t engaged to my brother.”

No response. Dogs have no use with the strange, silly ways of men. Kings and engagements, bastards and kingdoms. _You worry too much. Think only of the chase, of the hunt, of warmth and food and friendship. You would do well, I think._

“Mind you, Francis is so determined to break the alliance with Scotland, it might not be an issue.” Bash glanced quickly down at Stirling. “Not that we could—it would…Not that anything would come of it. Between Mary and…” He trailed off. “She’s just pretty. And smart. That’s all.”

_Not_ all _,_ scorned the hound.

Bash’s voice was taking on a breezy tone. “I’ve certainly seen prettier. Lady Charlotte is definitely very beautiful. And Eliza, the kitchen maid…Mary doesn’t necessarily…She’s not the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Obviously.” He shook his head. “She’s just a girl.”

_Just_ , the hound agreed. _Just a girl as you are just an idiot_.

“What I feel is…a family obligation. Because of Francis.”

Stirling made no response, though he did wonder who this Francis was and why he seemed to be the root of the tall man’s woes.

“Ah, well. The court will be wondering where we got off to. Well. They won’t, actually. But Mary will have missed us. You. I meant you. She will have missed you. She wouldn’t have missed me, obviously. She doesn’t know me. You. She’ll have missed you. Specifically. Just you. Stirling.”

The hound wasn’t sure exactly what the tall man was saying. Only that sounds seemed to fall from his lips without meaning anything. Or perhaps meaning too much. _Words, words, words. Too many, with you humans. They lose meanin_ g _. Live simply and live well, dark one. Life doesn’t need to be cluttered with so many useless words._

Bash sighed. He pasted a grin to his face and looked to Stirling. “Come on, then, hound. I’ll race you to the castle.”

And they did. And the tall, dark bastard felt his false smile become real and permanent.

Stirling panted noisily at his side, stretching his long, lean legs out in powerful strides. _I’ll show you scrawny, tall man. Scrawny runs rings around you, dark one._

So they raced.

And the hound won.

**Author's Note:**

> Just FYI: Bash doesn't understand Stirling. The italics coming from the hound are Stirling's thoughts. Stirling can understand Bash, which is why the "conversations" they have might be disjointed and hard to follow. Bash is sort of pretending he knows what Stirling is feeling, but he's really just barreling through a conversation with himself. Also, the fic jumps from Bash's POV to Stirling's.


End file.
